RPlog:Saving Grace
It's been five whole days. Five days in which to explore the same four walls of this room. Ullo has neither called for Ylsa nor allowed anyone to visit her, save for Ilyana. Needless to say the progression of the days has been slow, the reasons for the books and games readily apparent. When not involved with duties toward her lady or her other duties in the palace, Ilyana has spent much quiet time in her ladyships company, offering forth the news from the court while sewing to pass the time. Today seems no different as there is a knock from the door before it opens to admit the young woman in carrying a tray of breakfast in to her mistress. She does not call out, having learned that Ylsa is not of the most pleasant disposition in the mornings. Instead she places the meal down at the small table provided next to the bed, pouring the coffee first so that the aroma might entice her to a better mood. Then, just in case, a dressing gown is laid out and a bath drawn, should that be her waking pleasure. Ylsa has lingered in bed far beyond sunrise, though time has ceased to matter to the denizen of this chamber. Sprawled diagonally and face down across the bed, a bare arm or leg suggesting she wears the tousled bedclothes and nothing more, she shows little sign of life or of waking. And the cause of this lengthy rest is readily apparently in the empty Sularish wine bottle lying on its side near the bed. It appears to have rolled away from the hand that is dangling limply off the edge of the mattress. Glancing at her mistress with a worried air, Ilyana sets about to straightening the room and disposes of the bottle by the side of the bed. She does pause there for a moment to lightly touch Ylsa's arm, querying, "Lady? Do you care to eat?" A little twitch in a muscle on that arm indicates that Ilyana's query was heard, but the successive answer is either in some obscure language or too muffled for comprehension. Frowning with dismay, her gaze fretful as she looks about the room, she moves toward the music system. Kneeling before it, she carefully pulls out a disc from her pocket rather than the available collection, staring at it thoughtfully for a long moment before placing it inside. A womanÕs voice sings out in a strange language, the melody and lines atonal ... and strikingly familiar. The volume is left low, an anxious gaze shot toward the bed before the girl rises to turn off the water, lest the bath overrun. A pillow is launched toward the audio system, its path errant and erratic. Another series of incomprehensible mumbles, then Ylsa stills again. Perhaps today was not the best day ... but how long could she wait when every day her mistress seemed irascible? There just wasn't enough time, and for a moment Ilyana simply sits by the tub of water, staring at her face as if it were a strange and alien thing. She examines her hands next, but her eyes see something else entirely ... things her hands have done over the years, and of all of them, which has brought her truly the most pride. The most pleasure. Eventually the music worms its way into Ylsa's subconscious and lures her to a state of greater wakefulness and, rolling onto her back, she stares at the ceiling with a dull throb of dislike for the universe. "What is that smell?" Her mistresses voice brings Ilyana out of her reverie and she darts out, staring for a moment at the splayed figure in a different light. Not as mistress. As a woman. An ... equal? _No!_ is her first reaction, the whole idea baffling to her and disturbing ... but it has niggled its way into her thoughts. "Breakfast m'lady. It's not to your liking?" "It is fine, it is fine." Ylsa does indeed sound cross as she presses the heels of her palms into her eye sockets as though she is trying to crush the thrumming pain below. "Coffee or tea is there, yes? How...what time is it?" "Ten and three score m'lady," murmurs the girl as she draws closer, yet not too close. Like one might to a beautiful but potentially dangerous exotic animal. Too pretty to be real. Her gaze shifts to the side before she asks cautiously, "Is the music too loud?" Ylsa shakes her head, albeit gingerly, and answers while stumbling to her feet, "No, it...it..." Then she stares at the audio player, clutching bedclothes against her otherwise naked figure. "What..?" Averting her gaze, Ilyana can only assume she did not understand the question, and therefore repeats, "Is the music too loud mistress? I could turn it down for you if it is." "That music...that music." Ylsa's smudged, sleep-dulled eyes find and fix on Ilyana with a bit of accusation and more than a touch of wildness. "What is it?" Her eyes start to widen in panic and it is with great restraint that she does not glance up at the camera. Perhaps someone is watching and perhaps not. So much she has learned these past few days ... "Mistress," she murmurs, pressing the food forward, "perhaps it would be best if you ate something first, and then I could give you the news of the court?" Her eyes are wide, hoping that her lady will understand what she is -not- saying. "I do not know what this music is ... it is just something .... something I found." Her mouth shuts, teeth sinking into her lip as she turns away to lower the volume. Ylsa's gaze narrows, but slightly so, then she drops the blanket where she stands and shuffles toward the bath. Yes, she knows they are being watched, but her body is something that Ullo and his men have abused and admired for years. Now is no time for modesty. "Bring the food and my cigarillas," she murmurs thickly while stepping into the steamy water, "and speak to me of what you know." Her face looks like it is about to crumple as she watches her mistress leave. Obediently she gathers up the demanded items bringing them into the bath in Ylsa's wake. She lays them out for Ylsa's pleasure, kneeling beside the tub, neck bent and eyes focused on the floor. _Master and servant ... master and servant. There is no other way for me. Lies, all lies. Lord Ullo is right_ She blinks hard, pushing back tears. Softly, very softly, Ylsa whispers as the girl kneels beside her, "Sssh, child. Play his game. Sssh." She can't help the sniffle that breaks free, hands reaching up to wipe at her eyes before looking up in confusion, whispering in return, "What game lady?" Ylsa splashes a bit in the tub, keeping her voice just below the level of the water's sounds. "What is it you are trying so ardently not to tell me, Ilyana?" The girl looks scared, like she'd made a decision but didn't realize how hard it would be to carry it out. Slowly tentatively she reaches into a pocket, her hand pulling out with seemingly nothing in it. She then reaches for a washcloth, murmuring low, "He said you would recognize this and take it ... take it as proof." And with that the cloth changes hands and is passed to Ylsa like an offering. And for a lady taking a bath, a perfectly reasonable one. Recognition and proof indeed. Ylsa's luminous oceanic irises further liquefy with unbidden tears as she clutches the shell in her fist. The jaded, cautious part of her reminds her, and sharply so, that this could be nothing more than one of Ullo's tricks to lure her into a sense of false hope or security, but the rest believes the Hutt could not, would not, know of the seaside holiday and this shell's meaning and import. "How...from where did you get this?" "From him," she whispers, although there is a softness about the simple pronoun ... not the sound of awe she would use when referring to her Master, but a quiet tone of genuine pleasure. Her gaze drops then and she reaches for a bar of soap and another cloth, preparing it to assist in her mistress' bath. Who but Paul would inspire such gentility in a woman? The wine and excesses of the previous evening are washed away as Ilyana begins to bathe her, but, back scrupulously turned to the peeking camera, she breathes, "Tell me, child. Tell me all of it." Her hands slide over Ylsa's form, rubbing away at nonexistent dirt. Her eyes are miles away focused on her hands and a different form. A different task. "He found me," she whispers after a moment, unsure of where to start. "I don't know how or why. Scared me at first terribly. Didn't know what he was or wanted of me. Didn't even think he was human." Ylsa, startled, ensures her voice keeps to the low and discreet. "Who found you, Ilyana?" Even so, her voice quavers with the gravity of the news and the hope that surges through her veins. Her hands still, as if the idea of revealing his name might make her fully culpable, but she finally whispers, "Paul. He said his name was Paul. The Master's men did not find him on board the ship ... he was safely sealed away in some storage hatch." _Oh gods...oh gods...._ Ylsa seals her lids tightly shut and clenches her fists until her knuckles are white, trying to withhold her reaction and its passionate strength. "What else," she finally whispers, voice tight, "did he say?" Though her mistress' reaction is palpable, Ilyana cannot help the small smile that curls her lips. "Say? There were so many things mistress, I'm not sure where to begin." Her eyes return to her task, now trying to ease tension more than clean that which is already gleaming. "Please try to remember." Ylsa must assert a considerable effort to keep her tone on an even keel and dares not open her eyes nor relinquish the hold she has on her emotions. Pragmatic as she is, she is desperate not to believe utterly that her lover is safe. "M'lady," Ilyana murmurs a touch uncertainly. "It is not a question of remembering ... I remember everything. It's just that there is so much. I have been ser ... helping him for a few days now ..." Ylsa keeps quiet for a full five minutes while directing her concentration on slowing the racing rate of her pulse and relaxing her muscles: her back is tight enough to pass as a percussion instrument. Eventually she is able to query, "How is he?" Uncertain in the sight of her mistress' tense form, Ilyana's hands try to move soothingly, as if Ylsa were a high-strung horse beneath her hands. "Better now m'lady," she assures uncertainly. Another lengthy pause, another relinquishing of tension. Ylsa leans forward to offer more of her shoulders to the girl and breathes toward the water, "How did you find him?" "Like I said before, he found me. On the streets of Mos Eisley. I often have to go to town, run errands, pick up packages." There is a small shrug. "I look innocent I suppose. He grabbed me and dragged me into an off alley two days ago." Her hands pause for a moment as she recalls the afternoon, shaking her head. "I thought he was going to kill me .... or worse. But murderers don't say 'please'." Perhaps the alcoholic binges of the past few days have addled Ylsa's mind and memories, perhaps the injuries she sustained under Mephisto's brutality have left some internal scars, but confusion mars the smooth and, for once, cleanly undecorated visage of the blonde. "I thought...no. No. And what did he say to you?" Ilyana's brow wrinkles in thought as she reconstructs the event in her mind. "I must have hurt him ... I was struggling," she hastens to add, eyes dropping. "He let me go and I started to run as he fell, but he called out, "Please."" She shakes her head as if chiding herself for stupidity. "I don't know why I didn't just keep running. I guess I couldn't. He told me that he needed my help, that there was no one else. He ...." and the very idea astonishing it takes a moment before she can finish, "he begged me to. Took my hands in his and told me that I held his life." There is a small tremor in the girls frame, her eyes flickering to those small dark hands. Ylsa's breath catches and, despite her rigid self-control, tears flood her vision. As she squeezes her eyes shut again, the salty drops drizzle down her cheeks, leaving a glistening trail of evidence of her feelings. When she can again speak, the sultry, exotic accent is broken by emotion. "Please continue, child." The emotion catches the girl by surprise. Shocks her. But a servant does not acknowledge emotions of their master ... or in this case mistress. Her hands flutter away to rest in her lap as she stares at the soapy water slowly trailing off to stain her thighs. "We found a quiet place - he must have been hiding there for awhile ... an abandoned warehouse. He had nothing really. Claims he left too fast, too dazed to think clearly. He'd been hurt and was sick and malnourished and this is why I thought he asked me to help." Her hands twist slightly as she mumbles, "He kept apologizing ... to -me-. Over and over again." "Apologizing?" Confused, curious, Ylsa turns to face the girl kneeling beside her bed, lifting her chin with a thumb and forefinger. "Child, do not look away or fear me. If I show anger or impatience, it is for the camera or from my selfish emotions, nothing more. Now continue. Please." Nodding, her eyes bright and full, Ilyana waits until she is released her eyes still dropping to her hands despite Ylsa's words. Or perhaps it is habit. "For troubling me. He was apologizing for asking for help." Her hands open, spread out across her thighs as she recalls what they did and the praise he lavished on them. "So I stayed. I helped." She shrugs helpless, her mouth twisting a little as she admits, "I could not do but otherwise." Plucking at her meager dress she continues, "So it's been two days now that I've seen him ... last night he gave me the thing for you and admitted the truth. Perhaps it is long habit or merely a desperate fear for Paul's safety, but Ylsa is still experiencing a need for caution. "And what truth did he say to you, my dear child?" Her gaze rises and drops, a shrug offered as she murmurs, "That he picked me because I ... because of the Master. He'd been watching me ... following me for a few days." A small bittersweet smile curls her lips as she whispers, "He apologizes to me a lot. And asks for many favors." Her fingers caressing Ilyana's silken hair, the touch tender and kind, Ylsa murmurs, "He is a gentleman the likes of which you will never encounter on Tattooine. What have you told him of me?" "I have told him," she releases on a shaky breath, "that you are well, that I am your servant, and that you are safe and not being harmed." Ylsa's touch on her hair is not acknowledge, her dark eyes still finding safety and solace in the tiles of the floor. "There has been little else to tell, and I did not wish to worry him any further. He was frantic enough when we first ... met." Ylsa lets go the breath she was holding and remarks quietly, "Yes...he would be. When you see him, tell him..." She pauses to send a glance toward the bedroom, then continues, "Tell him I am well and we will be together soon enough, I am certain. And to avoid risking himself at all costs. Repeat that to him." _They are cut of the same cloth, and neither will heed the others advice I'm sure_ muses the young servant, her head dropping obediently to the cool tile. "Yes mistress, I will," she whispers to the floor, "I will give him your message." Any other thoughts she keeps to herself. Ylsa prompts as though the unspoken thoughts were crystal clear, "Did he have a message in turn for me, beyond the shell?" Raising up slowly, Ilyana murmurs, "Just to be patient, he is devising an escape .... and ... and that he loves you." Ylsa releases the breath she had been holding as a warmth flows through her veins, the words honing through in a Corellian baritone rather than in Ilyana's girlish voice. But even as that knowledge pleases her the flare of worry over his plans against Ullo cause no end of concern. The stronghold is virtually impenetrable, and, if he were caught he would suffer hellish punishment...and death. And Ylsa likely would be thrown to Mephisto and his goons. Rising up slowly, Ilyana gathers a towel and brings it to the tub, murmuring, "The water must be getting cold m'lady." The girl knows a little of this Corellian's plans, and knows that like it or not, she will become an integral part of them ... if she agrees to help him. Her fingers flex on the towel briefly as she extends it in offering. Ylsa also stands, the cooled water streaming off of her alabaster figure to leave little diamond-like sparkles in the form of tiny droplets. She accepts the towel and winds it about her lissome frame, which has for all intents and purposes shed the aftereffects of her assault. "I am hungry," she proclaims regally. "Come sit with me and dine, little one. Yes?" Sit? Certainly. Dine? Unheard of. Bowing fractionally and helping Ylsa on with her robe, the dark girl murmurs, "Yes mistress." She follows in the elegant blondes wake, her hands ready to serve. The room is quiet as the music first chosen has finished, leaving the space open and strangely vulnerable. Ylsa exchanges her towel for a robe, settles on a woven carpet on the floor, and pats the ground beside her. "Bring my meal here, little one, and sit beside me so we may share it." Staring at her mistress a trifle oddly, Ilyana complies with the command, settling herself and the food at Ylsa's side on the floor. Serving units are opened, to reveal breakfast, wondrously hot and fresh. There is a sample of a bit of everything - fruit, rolls, eggs, crisped meat, juices, and pastries. Ilyana doesn't dare touch a morsel, no matter what her mistress may suggest. She lays a napkin delicately across Ylsa's lap instead, picking up a plate and waiting for the command of what to serve first. Ylsa looks steadily at Ilyana without speaking or moving for a good half-minute before instructing, "Eat." Tentatively a slender hand reaches out, taking up a small piece of meat. It is lifted to her mouth and delicately and slowly nibbled upon. she was going to insist that she had already eaten, should her mistress push the issue. But an order is an order, and must be obeyed. Ilyana's eyes lift shyly to Ylsa's features, looking at her intently for a moment and perhaps more boldly than a servant ought before slowly lowering again. "You may look upon me, Ilyana...the sight of me shall not turn you to stone." Ylsa plucks a piece of fruit from the tray and begins nibbling as well, asking between bites, "You are hungry, yes?" "It is not .... seemly," she replies softly, "and I have eaten my morning meal ... I do not require nor deserve more mistress." But she does not sacrifice the crisped meat in her hands. Her gaze lifts again to study her mistress with an almost open curiosity. Ylsa retorts too softly for all but a powerful microphone to hear, "You deserve to have what you wish. And please do not be afraid...what you see of me is often what I would have Ullo see." She nods mutely, her coarser nature showing through as she tears at another piece of greasy meat. She doesn't for a moment believe that she deserves anything more than she receives, but she is realizing that her mistress has more layers than she normally receives. "I'm not afraid," she states, perhaps a bit more boldly than she feels. Ylsa smiles, though it has the hallmarks of a smirk. "Of course you are not." Saving Grace